


The Education of Mr Darcy

by S_Faith



Category: Bridget Jones's Diary (2001), Bridget Jones's Diary - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-10
Updated: 2006-11-10
Packaged: 2019-03-11 10:14:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13522101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_Faith/pseuds/S_Faith
Summary: A first night together take from Mark's POV, exploring his (repressed) thoughts and feelings about sex.





	The Education of Mr Darcy

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another "first night together" take, this time from Mark's POV, exploring Mark's (repressed) thoughts, feelings and experiences re: sex. (An idea supplied by [](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://just-dreamsome.livejournal.com/)**just_dreamsome**.)
> 
> Definitely _not_ for the prudish, far too steamy for FF.net, and most definitely _not_ recommended to be read while at work. No, seriously. I was blushing while writing this. ::smiles evilly::

Finally. After so much trial, tribulation, misunderstanding, prejudice, pride and stubbornness, a connection had finally been made, a kiss had happened, and sparks had not merely flown but exploded. Now Mark Darcy walked with Bridget Jones enveloped within his coat through the cold late December evening, and the thought at the forefront of his mind was of the possibilities before him.

He still wasn't sure from which depths he'd summoned that kiss, but surely her encouraging participation had helped draw it out of him; he could not recollect kissing any woman quite so deeply as to warrant comment by her. Afterwards, a suggestion for warmer environs had been made, possibly even by himself, though he didn't remember doing so. Particularly conscious of her arm tightly wrapped around his waist, it occurred to him that while she had probably been interrupted while changing into something more comfortable, the choice of striped, skimpy panties and a simple tank was not accidental. He thought— _hoped_ —it meant she was interested in more than just a kiss. Much more.

For all of his brazenness earlier though, he was suddenly feeling a bit unsure. It wasn't unwarranted. He knew that while his sexual proclivities very much satisfied him, they leaned towards what his ex-wife had teasingly called 'vanilla'. He thought at the time that she had been kidding around, but considering how that relationship had turned out in the end, it had clearly been more than a joke.

That was not to say he was an uncaring man or was selfishly only interested in gratifying his own needs at the expense of his partner's. He had simply been a shy late bloomer without sufficient curiosity or confidence at the time these proclivities were forming to broaden his horizons beyond what he already knew or was expected to do.

The list of his previous lovers was not a long one. Among them was his wife, whom he loved and thought loved him in return, but clearly his mundane tastes were not enough to keep her from looking elsewhere, which wasn't exactly ego-boosting. There was also Natasha, the most recent addition to the list; his liaisons with her, while serving their ultimate purpose, had been perfunctory at best. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement and they both got exactly what they'd wanted from it, though he'd had a suspicion (confirmed at his parents' Ruby Wedding) that Natasha was hoping to parlay their arrangement into marriage. For him, it was sex for the sake of simply satisfying the need; no foreplay to speak of, no words of adoration, no lingering after the fact. For her, it was merely a matter of status, sleeping with a man of his stature because of that stature; power was, after all, the ultimate aphrodisiac for some, and clearly was for her. She was not a sensitive, emotional woman and didn't need, want or ask for those things—creative positions, multiple couplings per session, loving embraces in the afterglow, staying overnight—he didn't give her.

Bridget—both the woman and his attitude towards her—was so much different; a novelty, an unknown. This made him nervous.

"We're here," Bridget said quietly, rousing him out of his reverie. An older gentleman wearing a red and black plaid deerstalker cap opened the door for them, smiling at Bridget, then giving her a little wink. Mark smiled politely as Bridget emerged from beneath his coat.

"Come on," Bridget encouraged, stepping up onto the first step, smiling broadly, offering her hand to him.

Without words, he stepped forward and took it, his eyes meeting hers again before she grinned, turned around and led him up the stairs.

The trek up those stairs seemed to take an eternity. Hinging of course on her willingness, he had but one thing in mind: to strip away that sweater, tank and panties, and carry her off to bed as he'd thought about doing for so many weeks.

When they reached the flat, he puzzled at the door being ajar and the window being pushed up. She kicked off her trainers, padded across the carpet to close the window and explained, "I heard the door shut, came out to see you'd read my awful diary entries, stuck my head out the window, thinking you'd run for your life… and chased after you straightaway." She smiled, then began to close the curtains on each of the windows.

"Ah," he replied. 

"So. Take off your shoes, stay awhile." As she drew the final curtain closed, she turned back to him once more to fix him with a sultry look, slipping off the cardigan.

He wondered if he had gone three shades paler, because she came closer to him, concern rumpling her face. "Something the matter?"

God, but she was beautiful. He didn't reply, simply drew her closer and kissed her again.

"You didn't answer me," she said when he pulled away, as if uninterrupted.

His tone was sheepish as he said, "Nothing's the matter. I'm just… well. Considering the events of the last week… of the last _year_ … I can't believe I'm here with _you_. I mean, that you would want me—"

She burst out with an amused chuckle and reached up to pull the scarf off from around his neck; she dropped it to the floor. "It took me a while to figure it out, but Mark, you're as sexy as hell. I'd be crazy not to want you." She placed a hand on his cheek, still smiling. "I ran after you in the snow wearing next to nothing and practically _dragged_ you back to my flat, for God's sake—that should say everything about how I feel."

Her hand and her gaze trailed from his cheek, to his shoulder, then drifted down his chest to hover at his waist. In a rather impertinent tone, she raised her eyes to his again and said, running her fingertips over the finely tailored pleats on the front of his trousers, " _Well_. It's pretty clear how _you_ feel."

He could not deny what was so patently obvious. She then ran the backs of her fingers over his fly, causing him to go momentarily dizzy.

"So…?" The raising of her eyebrows and the devilish smile on her lips offered a wordless challenge that he was unwilling to let lie.

He grabbed her hips and pulled her roughly to him, his mouth finding hers again, the firmness in his groin serving to underscore his intent to her. He felt her say a quiet "oh" into his mouth, her grip on his waist tightening, and he smiled. Mentally he calculated the number of steps to her bedroom.

She, on the other hand, surprised him by reaching for the zip on his trousers, tugging it down to push her fingers through the opening. He actually gasped, jerking back a fraction.

"Come now, we're not going to get very far with your zip up," she said breathily between kisses.

It wasn't as if he didn't know that. He'd just had something a little more tender, more reverent in mind, the opposite end of the spectrum of his liaisons with Natasha, his ex-wife, and hell, the red-haired Welsh girl from Cambridge he'd lost his virginity to. Mark wanted to make love to Bridget, not merely fuck her.

At that instant though his brain went off line as she thrust her tongue deeply into his mouth at the same time her fingers drew out their quarry and encircled it. He could not stifle a moan, nor an involuntary thrust forward into her hand. She practically hooked her elbow around his neck, pulling him down slightly to accommodate her height. 

An unfamiliar feeling flooded over him: he cared less at that moment about his own preferences (protocol, position, or otherwise) than he did about satisfying her as much as humanly possible. However, he realised he was not going to be able to contain himself much longer if she continued this particular sort of attention to his person. "Bridget," he managed quietly as he grabbed her wrist to stop its motion, "I'm fairly certain you have a bed. Let's make use of it."

She teased throatily, not relinquishing her grasp of him, "Mark, we could discuss location, or we could… you know… make do…." She trailed off, directing her eyes towards the floor, the chair, then ultimately the sofa.

The unfamiliar feeling amended itself, commanding him to do anything, _anything_ , to achieve that goal. Whatever it took.

He pushed her hand away, stepping back from her, and for a moment she looked very confused, hurt and alarmed until he pulled his shirt off and unfastened his trousers, letting them drop to the floor, and fixing her with what he knew to be an intense look, judging by the way her expression changed. She looked mesmerised.

"Boxers. How not surprising," she said, her voice suddenly strained.

Not relinquishing his hold on her gaze, he dropped the boxers and took a step forward, then another, backing her towards the sofa; she stopped in surprise when that piece of furniture seemingly appeared out of nowhere directly behind her calves.

He reached for the hem of her tank top, and pulled it quickly up and over her head, sending her hair to halo around her face. Before she had a chance to react, he looped his thumbs around the elastic waistband of her panties and tugged rapidly down until gravity brought them to her ankles. He took a moment to appreciate her lovely curvy body in all its naked glory before he slipped one hand around her waist to pull her close, his desire pressed quite firmly against her abdomen. His other hand dove between her legs, fingers curling into her wetness; she barely had time to gasp before his tongue forcefully plunged into her mouth. She moaned, grabbing his upper arms for support.

Oh yes, this genie was definitely out of its bottle. He realised with the clarity of hindsight that it had been from the moment their lips had first met. "Turnabout is fair play," he said gruffly as he kissed her again, thrusting his fingers deeper into her, his thumb finding and working on just the right spot.

"Oh _God_ ," she whimpered. "Mark. I… Ohh." She pushed herself into his touch.

He thought it best to utilise the sofa before her knees gave out altogether, so, not ceasing his ministrations, he guided her gently downward to sit against the raised arm of the chaise-style sofa. From his position beside her hips, he watched as she writhed under his touch, and he leaned over her, running his other hand over the silky skin of her left breast. Suddenly inspired by thoughts of her reaction, he placed his mouth over the hard peak to pull his lips over it then gently graze it with his teeth. She tossed her head back again with a protracted moan and bucked her hips upward in time with the continued motion of his fingers.

He returned his kiss to her mouth, and she reached up to thread her fingers through his hair, then rake her nails along his shoulders and down his chest, to his abdomen, until finally her fingers once again found and wrapped around him, squeezing and pulling gently, her thumb brushing against the very tip. There was a noticeable hiccup in his rhythm as she did so. Mark was very aware that he was too close to climax for comfort to not be wearing a condom. He almost didn't care. Almost.

She arched back, releasing him again. "Mark," she breathed as if reading his mind, "find a johnny. _Now._ "

Not one to argue, he was thankful he'd had the foresight to shove some Durex packets into his trouser pocket. As he returned with one nestled in his palm, he paused for the briefest of moments to look at her sprawled against the sofa cushions, her cheeks ruddy, eyes closed, lips parted, hair splayed on the sofa cushion, chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

She probably had no idea how amazingly seductive she looked reclining there, anticipating his return. He never wanted a woman as much as he wanted her. In a flash of clarity he made the connection—the spontaneity of his choices in simply wanting to please her was what was making all the difference in the world between a quick, emotionless romp in the sack and meaningful, passionate lovemaking. In an instant he understood the yearning for the glorious exploration required for this most private of creativities. Along with this newfound insight, he realised that not even his wife had prompted such thoughts and feelings in him; he could almost understand now why she strayed.

He was somewhat ashamed: a man should not be suddenly struck with such an important self-evident notion for the very first time at age thirty-seven. He wasn't, however, so ashamed that he was unwilling to continue. 

"Mark, don't torture me like this," she began, lifting her head from the arm of the chaise. "Please tell me you have one."

"I have more than one." Very, very thankful, in fact.

"What are you waiting for?"

The mixture of lust and impatience in the tone of her voice was amusing and he could not suppress a smile. "Forgive me, Bridget. I was just having an epiphany."

He tore into the packet when he heard her make a clucking sound with her tongue.

"Come here. I'll give you an epiphany."

He drew near, and she sat up, extending her hand to him. He gave her the packet and she opened it, then reached up and grabbed his hip to encourage him closer.

Mark quickly wondered if he should've insisted on sitting again for this process, for her delicate and attentive technique in sheathing him with the condom made his knees weak. He placed his hand on her shoulder for support as she finished unrolling it. His eyes closed of their own will as she stroked the skin at the rim of the condom with featherlight caresses.

She stopped; his eyes opened. She had reclined once again, right foot planted on the ground, left knee raised against the back of the sofa, her eyes boring into his soul.

What was he waiting for, indeed.

He knelt on the sofa between her legs, running his hands from her waist to her hipbones before rounding to the velvet of her bottom, lifting her up. One hand caressed the skin of her inner thigh and trailed downward to find she was eager for the return of his touch. He took his dampened fingers away and then slowly and with as much restraint he could manage he guided himself partly into her.

She moaned and arched her back again, and that guttural sound was all he needed to hear to let loose the full force of his thrust, simultaneously pulling her buttocks towards him so that she was flat on her back. Abruptly her moan ceased, replaced with the sharp intake of breath.

And then she let loose with a cry that undulated as he continued thrusting into her. With his hands still upon her hips, he looked down to the beauty of her pleasure: her chin raised to the ceiling, her back arched, one arm hanging over the edge of the sofa and the other resting over her head; her perfect, full breasts moved each time he drove forward and she'd caught her lower lip between her teeth.

He was so close to the edge, so near to climax, especially after watching her. He was, however, still far too interested in exploring his new-found revelation to have it culminate now.

Feeling her skin under his hands, he was overcome by the need to have her body pressed against his own, but the narrowness of the sofa was not going to permit the position he was accustomed to. He realised he would have to improvise.

He slipped his hands from her hips around to the small of her back and pulled up. She knew at once what he meant to do; she opened her eyes and pushed herself upright, her arms immediately going around him, her nails instantly finding purchase in his back as she settled on his lap.

Their eyes met as they continued to move together before he kissed her again, one arm holding her close against him, the other hand stroking the side of her breast, trailing to her abdomen. She'd practically peaked with only his fingers working on and in her; he was curious what additional stimulation might do for her now.

He found his answer in short order. When his fingertips met where their bodies joined, it was as if a jolt of electricity had coursed through her. Her head jerked back and she cried out his name. There were allegedly no atheists in foxholes, and briefly Mark wondered if there were no atheists in the bedroom either as Bridget repeatedly panted the phrase "Oh God" in an increasingly frenzied manner as she rode his lap.

He felt her tighten around him, her hands grasped his hips, and she shuddered and tossed back her head again as a telltale ripple washed down the length of him. Knowing she'd reached ultimate fulfillment triggered his own release, and only then did he fall forward so that she was beneath him, his arms to either side of her head, gravity intensifying the power of his thrust and allowing him to ride the wave for a seemingly impossible length of time before slowing, stopping and coming to rest upon her.

It was without a doubt the most intense sexual experience he had ever had.

Quite probably from the lack of oxygen, Mark felt dizzy. He closed his eyes and nestled his face close to Bridget's neck, taking in the heady scent of her sweat mingled with the faint floral of her perfume. His heart thrummed loudly in his ears, and he gulped in lungfuls of air as he stretched out his legs behind him as best he could on that sofa. After what felt like hours in this happy state of repose, his breathing and pulse returning close to normal, he felt her fingernails graze along the muscles of his shoulders and upper arms, and he swore he heard her chuckle.

He tilted his face towards her. "Was that a laugh?" he asked quietly into her ear before he was overcome with the urge to nibble at her earlobe.

She lifted her chin as he continued around to her throat, felt the buzz of her larynx on his lips as she spoke again. "Let's just say there's a certain level of… disbelief as to what just happened there."

He raised his head to look at her, and was delighted to see she looked incredibly satisfied, almost smug. "Disbelief?" he asked gently.

She chuckled again, clearly still recovering her own breath. She reached around and drew her fingers down his cheek, and said in a light, playful tone, "I haven't known any men who figured out that little manoeuver on the first go. I _never_ expected it from a goody-goody like you."

He could not help but smile. "It just… came to me."

"Divine inspiration?"

Considering he was beginning to think of her as something of a goddess, he found the phrase oddly appropriate. "Hm. You could say that."

He realised that she was gazing up at him with something of a reverent look; he also realised that he was pretty much doing the same thing to her. A lopsided smirk overtook her mouth. "I'm glad you came back for that kiss goodbye," she said softly.

"'Goodbye' nothing," he murmured, bending to place another kiss upon her lips, when a worrying thought occurred to him, something that didn't usually concern him post-coitus. He wasn't exactly a skinny man and he knew his weight was probably putting uncomfortable pressure upon her. In this case, he preferred to linger.

A thoughtful expression surely crossed his features for she asked, "You okay?"

"Will be in a moment."

He raised himself up a bit and slipped his arms about her in order to roll and reverse their positions, so that she laid atop him, his back against the cushions and the arm of the chaise, she propped up to look at him.

"That's better," he said, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "You don't need my weight on you like that."

She snorted a laugh. "I'm not exactly sylph-like, you know. I could probably crush you."

He engaged her eyes again, running his hands along her shoulders, down her back, and to her bottom. "No, you're not sylph-like. And thank God for that. It wouldn't be nearly as much fun without these gorgeous curves to hold on to."

He swore she actually blushed, and rested her cheek on his chest.

He sat there holding her for some minutes before he realised he could feel goosepimples on her skin now that she had cooled down. He reached for the blanket draping over the back of the sofa and drew it over the pair of them, returning his hands to rest on her backside.

"Thank you," she murmured as she raked her fingernails down his chest, turning her head and planting a kiss there.

This simple action had the profound effect of stirring his desire anew, something he was also unaccustomed to after sex. Reflexively his fingers tightened on her bottom. And in turn her finger traced a circle around his nipple before she stretched to kiss it. His fingers played along her ribcage, pausing at the sides of her breasts to caress them.

She lifted herself up again to meet his eyes, then pushed herself forward to bring her face closer to his. His thumbs passed over her nipples, teasing them, causing her to make a soft sound and close her eyes. She leaned forward, her breath hot and heavy on his cheek before she claimed his mouth again. 

When she pulled away, panting anew, she said in a very husky voice, "Ready for round two, are we?"

He didn't answer… not with words, anyway.

_The End._


End file.
